


The One Where John Is Alone

by KingAleksander (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:13:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/KingAleksander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach has come and gone, but John Watson's heart will hurt for years to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where John Is Alone

Despite the two years they shared a flat, John had never told (him) just how much (he) meant to him. Sure, at crime scenes he added his input to the man's deductions and had quite often told (him) just how cold (he) could be, but.. Well, John wasn't sure where he would be had Mike not brought the brilliant detective into his life. Perhaps living with his sister, his limp still evident and shoulder aching, he mused.

He had changed a considerable amount during their short time together. He had entered the tall man's life with a shaking hand that ached for the kickback of his gun, a limp that (he) saw right through, and nightmares of his friends that plagued him. But then (he) had barged right in, made John care, forget his limp, and get back to living. They solved cases, John blogged, and, on occasion, (he) forgot to put on pants.

John, sitting cross-legged in front of (his) tombstone, let out a bitter laugh. He was right back where he started. Without (him), John slipped back into his immediate post-war attitude. His bedroom was bare and the nightmares returned, though they weren't of Afghanistan this time. He'd dusted off his cane and stared out the window (he) was so fond of. He watched the world pass by, wondering why only his world had stopped. Did Mycroft feel this way? What about Greg? They had known (him) much longer than John, but when Mycroft came to visit there was nothing more than a pat on the shoulder and a book left on the kitchen table. From Greg there was another pat on the shoulder and an offer to talk, should he need it.

He sighed and opened his eyes. His hand was tracing the letters on the smooth granite. He had memorized their pattern already. "I never told you how much you meant to me. You saved my life. You got me back on my feet and helped me become the man I am today. ...I know you think heroes don't exist, but..you are a hero. You saved so many lives and avenged others. Without you...without you, I don't know where I would be today. I certainly wouldn't be here, waiting for you to just.." he sighed. "I never thanked you for...everything. You never were one for talking about your emotions. Now I'll never have a chance to tell you that-" A sob tore from his chest. He turned his head down, not wanting (him) to see him like this.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment, a heavy-hearted laugh coming through the tears. "I promised myself I wouldn't cry." The rain was coming down in buckets, drenching him to the bone.

The rain silenced his next words from the prying ears of the dead surrounding him. "I miss you, you bastard." But apparently not the living. An umbrella forced itself over John and the tombstone. Mycroft stared down at him with tired, old eyes. Neither of them spoke as John stood, allowing Mycroft to wrap a blanket around his shoulders. John nodded his thanks.

In the sleek black car, Mycroft reached over and grasped John's hand. John, freezing from the rain, looked up. Mycroft's eyes said enough.

The next morning, John finally opened the book Mycroft left. It was filled with pictures of his consulting detective and John from various cases and not-dates.

As the book's pages turned and yellowed, the years flashed by and John Watson, strong, reliable _(alone)_ John Watson, smiled.

  
_A heart so big...god couldn't let it live._   



End file.
